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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29470476">Warlock Dowling and the Therapy that Doesn't Go as Planned</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/alis_propriis_volat/pseuds/alis_propriis_volat'>alis_propriis_volat</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Other, Surprise Ending, Therapy, warlock is actually ok . . . somehow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:23:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,658</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29470476</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/alis_propriis_volat/pseuds/alis_propriis_volat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically what it says in the title. The therapist that Warlock meets with seems to want to help him on the surface, but does she have a more ambiguous agenda beneath the surface?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Warlock Dowling and the Therapy that Doesn't Go as Planned</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi, everyone! This is my first ever time posting fanfiction online. I dabbled years ago with posting one poem on Wattpad, but didn't really feel comfortable with that. That being said, feel free to write me a comment telling me what I have done well, and what could be better. I have a second chapter roaming around my head, if this garners any interest. Thank you so much to anyone who takes the time to read this.<br/>Happy Reading, alis_propriis_volat</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>     "Warlock? Warlock Dowling?" The overstuffed grey sofa threatened to engulf the young man perched stiffly. His face had lost its awkward angles. His cropped hair complimented his stormy blue eyes. He shifted in discomfort. "Yeah, that's me." He promptly added, "feel free to laugh." His eyes darted from hers. Cynthia Opus-Goldwater loved a challenge and in her seventeen years as a therapist, she had dealt with plenty. She studied him critically. "Do people often laugh at your name?"<br/>
In an act of childish defiance, Warlock Dowling rolled his eyes. She raised a blonde eyebrow and he stared back, chastised and apologetic. Sighing, he admitted, "Sure, in grade school kids called me 'Harry Potter' and teachers got to practice maintaining classroom professionalism. At my firm, I go by 'Walt'."<br/>
     Cynthia pursed her lips. "I like to ask questions that may seem intrusive. Try to answer honestly."<br/>
Warlock thought to ask, 'Don't I have the right to say no?', but the ambience of the room–God, those hideously boring paintings were numbing him into a stupor– and Dr. Opus-Goldwater's hazel eyes compelled him to say "ok" despite himself. <br/>
     The therapist leaned forward and without hesitation, "Do you resent your parents for giving you your irregular name?". <br/>
Warlock balked. She did say intrusive questions, right? "Wow. Ok. I don't want to give you the impression that I'm a melodramatic person." In truth, Warlock had the feeling he was being toyed with. With other therapists, he vented only about the stress of work. When the subject of his childhood arose, he dropped them and the cycle of repression began again. Warlock had been raised to guard his image from outsiders. However, this particular woman exuded a vibe; she wouldn't prod the bruises of his psyche for fame or juicy gossip. He had encountered several journalists and columnists eager for the dirt that surely must cling to the American diplomat's son. He had a feeling that Cynthia Opus-Goldwater would not lure him into a false sense of security only to shriek "Daddy issues! I was right!" to the world. <br/>
     The therapist commanded the silence, cutting in, "You have not truly answered the question, Warlock." A quietness stifled like a sweltering August afternoon. Cynthia realized her mistake in his bewildered look. "My apologies. I should not have pushed you, please, take your time." <br/>
Warlock perceived a shift in the atmosphere of the room. Prior to his appointment, he scrutinized the website to check her credentials. Her eloquence paired with her certificates had convinced him that she was more than qualified. Perhaps he unnerved her. <br/>
     “Please, don’t apologize. Secretiveness–it's a habit, an occupational hazard, a familial quirk. To answer your question, no. No, I don't resent my mother, the woman who named me. My parents both wanted a kid. My dad was at the height of his career as an ambassador to the US and so he wasn't able to be present. His meeting with the president couldn't be postponed. Mom was here in the UK, in a quaint nowhere town. Tadfield, I think. The army base hospital hadn’t been finished in time.” He paused and took a breath. “I haven’t really got to the heavy stuff yet. I don’t want you to be disturbed by my issues. The rest of my life story is pretty non-standard . . . weird, I mean.”<br/>
Cynthia took his hand firmly, grounding him. “Warlock, I have been practicing for quite some time. Frankly, nothing you say will faze me. Please, continue.”  <br/>
     “Alright. Um . . . I don’t know how to phrase this. I was born in a Satanic convent. The night my mom and the secret service brought me home, it burned to the ground. No one knows why. My mom only occasionally talks about it; she says her memory of the place is fuzzy. I googled it and not much comes up; there used to be a website. It got converted into a paintball facility. I feel like it’s the universe telling me that my life is a joke, like it’s playing a game with me.”<br/>
     The therapist nodded keenly, like she too had been the victim of many a cosmic prank. “The universe, yes. These Satanic nuns, I imagine they played a role in naming you, yes?”<br/>
Warlock chuckled, “Mom told me that she does remember that the nuns were devoted to Saint Beryl. They called themselves the Chirping Order, or something like that. Apparently their mission was to never shut up, ever. She said they literally never stopped talking. When it came time to name me, one of them suggested Warlock and according to my mom, her mind just went blank.” He focused on the wall just behind Dr. Opus-Goldwater’s chair. A painting of a miserable farmer on a dismal farm, just terrible. His attention was brought back as she bowed her head in thought. She asked, “What do you believe your mother would have chosen if not for the Satanic nuns, I mean?”<br/>
Warlock grimaced, “Thaddeus. My dad’s name” Ugh . . . his father’s name. “Does that bother you? The idea that you could have been your father’s namesake?”<br/>
     He cupped his head in his hand. How could he answer that one, especially that horrible hypothetical. “Ah. I don’t know. I just . . . I always thought maybe. . . Ah! It sounds immature even in my head. Jeez, here it goes: I thought that I were Thaddeus Dowling Jr. my dad would have made more time for. Spent actual, quality, father-son time with me. God, I’m ridiculous. I can’t believe I said that.” As his tirade drew to an end, Warlock determinedly set his gaze on a painting of a garden, a garden painted by someone on Valium. <br/>
     “I don’t find that trivial or ridiculous.” Her smile was betrayed by her stern tone. “Names are an expectation. It is natural for children to seek the approval of parents, on whom their survival is contingent. If that approval is absent, it impairs confidence and self-worth in adults. Children are at the mercy of their parents. Your name is quite unique. Tell me, did you ever feel destined for something monumental?”<br/>
     Shame morphed into shock. Surely she meant that Warlock had felt obligated to seek a political position; his expectation, his birthright as a Dowling. That failed archaeological mission in the Middle East . . . His father had made a large and rather effective effort to cover that story up. It was an embarrassment and even he and his mother weren’t allowed to bring it up. How could she know that the American diplomat and his family were harassed in the desert by a smelly, scraggly, strange homeless man. ‘She couldn’t’, he decided. ‘She must be insinuating that Dad isn't proud of me’. With no idea from where the idea had sprung, Warlock still felt enraged; she barely knew him!<br/>
“How did you shift from my daddy issues to my illusions of grandeur so effortlessly. Did you earn one of those PhDs in changing the subject?” <br/>
     Cynthia’s face pinched. She faintly brushed a hand across her chest. “Warlock, I never meant to assert that you seek validation because of your father, nor did I claim that you suffer illusions of grandeur. I only wonder if your father’s busy schedule or indifference has left you feeling lost, unloved, or unlovable. These feelings would be natural and we can reverse them together.” <br/>
     “Gee, now that you’ve cleared that up, I actually have mommy issues too. Maybe you want to poke at that, or no– you’d definitely say, ‘Warlock, I never said you have abandonment issues, I merely concluded that your mother’s neglect ruined your ability to have a normal relationship with women and fueled your toxic masculinity. Please, spare me the deductions, Sherlock Holmes.” <br/>
     She shifted her hands before settling one gently on his shoulder. “Oh, I am so sorry. Clearly my tactic of guided openness is counterproductive with you. I think, if you are willing, it would be for the best if you told me your story on your own terms. It would be more constructive for the both of us that way. Is that alright?”<br/>
Tension melted under her delicate hand. His unexplainable anger rolled off him like a boulder. “Yes. Sorry for my outburst. I can do that.” He wished to cast off his residual pain and anger like an hourglass draining of its last trickle of sand. “Before I was even born, both of my parents were, for lack of a better word, shallow. My dad was handsome and accumulating political power. My mom was an attractive, fairly affluent young woman with a reputation of picking promising men. Once they got together, they were hooked on the image: a power couple able to conquer the world, drawing envy and attention wherever they went. After dating for about two and a half years, they had an extravagant wedding and subsequent honeymoon. A year or so later, my mom was pregnant with me. They had taken up residence in London two months before I was born. Things were tense even before they added a kid. My mom resented my dad’s divided attention, even though she preferred gossiping and flirting like a teenage girl to being a mother. She would dote on me only to ignore my dad, but she also mandated regular “alone time”. My dad stopped caring– he had plenty of powerful friends and eager women to occupy him. I learned of my parent’s indiscretions from our household staff who enjoyed spreading tabloidesque dirt more than sweeping up actual dirt. I knew my parents loved each other, but they also loved the lives they were leading apart from one another. They got used to it. I adjusted too. I knew that occasionally if I asked my mom to chase me in the garden or to read me a storybook, I could expect her to say, ‘Warlock, manners! Mommy’s busy!’ My dad was much worse; he never made time for me.”<br/>
Warlock glanced at Cynthia. To his surprise, she wasn’t frantically scribbling in a notebook or typing on a laptop, or even recording him. She was perched on her airchair like a woman rapt by her favorite soap opera. She nodded, beckoning him to continue.<br/>
     “Being a diplomat’s son had perks: I always had awesome birthday parties, received any Christmas gift I asked for, and took extravagant trips, but there would invariably be a catch. If I asked my dad if he’d come to my party or my soccer games, he would brush me off or tell me that he had a business trip, or a golf outing with fellow diplomats, or a meeting with the president or a million other excuses.”<br/>
     Cynthia nodded and cleared her throat. “I am very sorry that your childhood was so conflicted and lonesome. Do you feel more satisfied in your adult life? How would you say that your childhood impacted your relationships.” <br/>
     Warlock scoffed. “How do you think? Most self-respecting women don’t go out with guys named ‘Warlock’ and rightly so.” The painting of a bleak woman staring bleakly seemed to taunt him. <br/>
     The therapist put her hands together gently. She cocked her hand up. “So, you have never had a satisfying relationship?” <br/>
Warlock shook his head vehemently, “No, actually, I have a girlfriend Amanda. She’s amazing, understanding, intelligent, funny, basically any positive adjective you can think of, she’s it. We’ve been together for a little over two years.”<br/>
     Dr. Opus-Goldwater smiled and raised an eyebrow. “That is excellent. I think you must have had some positive influence in your life to shape this aspect of your personal life.”<br/>
Warlock quirked a smile back. “You have no idea” Indulging her with this story . . . it was even more personal than those about his parents. <br/>
     “Well, why don’t you share?” Cynthia's eyes shone with conspiracy, a twinkle that you would miss if you dared blink. She could sense a crack in the dam of Warlock's hesitance; he was a treasure trove.
     His delicate fingers brushed a strand of errant hair from his forehead. "Sure, where do I start. . . We've already established my parents had no time for me. By the time I was five, we had a bustling house full of staff; we had maids, waiters, a cook, trainers, you name it. Well, like any rich, pampered kid, I also had a nanny. But, it wasn't like one of those dramatized shows. She wasn't like Mary Poppins or Nanny McPhee. Her name was Nanny Ashtoreth, but she was just "Nanny" to me."<br/>
Warlock had not told anyone about Nanny. He occasionally got the irrational idea that if he spoke of her out loud, someone would steal his memory and then he would lose all hope of ever feeling at peace. Even Amanda was suspect in this suspicion. However, Dr. Opus-Goldwater . . . something about her; the only way to describe it was he had the startling realization that she actually knew everything about him. This would be fleeting, though, and as soon as it occurred, it would pass. 
     "She did everything with me: she did crafts with me, helped me with homework, chased me in the garden, played games, told me stories, gave me advice, tucked me in. I loved her more than anything and she told me I was her favorite human in the entire universe." At the time, that meant everything to Warlock. Bullies could push him down, take his toys, call him the worst names imaginable, but they could never, never take Nanny's love from him. 
     "She clearly meant a lot to you. Was there anyone else?" Hearing her voice, Warlock became acutely aware that his eyes had become unusually wet. He cleared his throat quickly, more to distract himself than to distract Cynthia. <br/>
     "Oh, yes. My family, when they hired my nanny, also hired a gardener. He was an odd man. My dad called him 'queer'. His name was Brother Francis. All the staff thought he was a runaway monk, because he always spoke gently and about God and kindness and stuff. He was different from Nanny in that way. She always said I would control the world and it would bend to my will, but Brother Francis said that the world belongs to everyone and I need only look inside to find my place."<br/>
With each detail, Warlock could detect a bubble of memory popping deep in the recesses of his mind, unleashing things he hadn't considered in more than a decade. Nanny’s ability to name every plant in the garden, the way she touched his hair and soothed his ills, her stories that never quite made sense to his teachers and the staff, but delighted him to no end. “They were both weird, but they were my family. I think with family, peculiarity is given a pass. Wait– what I really mean is–it was ok for them to be strange, because I knew they loved me and I still love them.” With that declaration of his chest, he glanced up, searching for validation. If Cynthia said anything contrary . . judged them in any way, he couldn’t bear it. <br/>
     “When you say weird, you don’t mean it in the traditional sense. Their quirks are ingrained in you; you cherish them. These figures provided for you. You are a young man with an unfathomable well of emotions, most of all gratitude. If you can, can you tell me more about your nanny?” <br/>
The faucet that had begun to drip now raged in earnest. “Of course, Doctor. I remember one time in particular, when I was perhaps six and a half. My dad had said no to spending a weekend with me, because he had a dinner party that would lead into a weekend-long meeting. I was livid and so while he was away on a golf outing, I took my craft supplies and tore up his best suit. I destroyed it, completely obliterated. I knew my father would be furious. I wanted him to be furious, at least while in the heat of the act. Afterwards, though, I was petrified. Nanny found me crying and asked me what was the matter. I could never lie to her, so I showed her what I had done. When she saw, she started laughing, almost choking with laughter. She kissed my head and told me to play in the garden. When I told Brother Francis, he assured me that Nanny would take care of it, even if it took a miracle. At night, before bed, I snuck into my dad’s room, and I couldn’t believe it. The suit was immaculate. To this day I have no clue what she did to fix that suit, because it was in tatters. There is no way that she used a sewing machine and she definitely could not have found a replacement so quickly as it was made in Italy.” Warlock shook his head. As a child, he had just accepted what had transpired, but as an adult with more rational thought, it didn’t sit right with him. <br/>
Cynthia was working through the same thoughts, intrigued. Both expected an answer. It was the raven and the writing desk riddle, without one, yet one could only hopelessly ponder it. “That is strange, did you ever notice anything else strange with your nanny and gardener?”<br/>
     “Yes, actually. I remember Nanny singing me this dark lullaby about blood and darkness. If my mom had heard it, I doubt Nanny would have kept her job, but it was normal to me. In the morning, I played outside and whatever Nanny had said the night before, Brother Francis would say the exact opposite. Anyone else probably would have become frustrated, but the opposite ideologies comforted me. I was devastated when they left.”<br/>
     Warlock never knew why his Nanny and the gardener left. His parents claimed that he was too old to have a nanny, even though he was only a few months shy of seven. Later, he would have tutors, who while amicable and wise, could not measure up to his Nanny. Brother Francis left when Nanny did. The rumor among the staff was that there was a love affair. The rumor had legs to stand on, considering how much time the two spent together. Staff would complain that at their parties, she would always leave early and go to Francis’s quarters. The only people that could genuinely make her smile were the bumbling gardener and the sweet little boy she made an oath to raise. <br/>
     “Did they stay in touch? Have you thought of getting in contact with them?” The questions stumbled out without rest. <br/>
     “The year after they left, yes, I wrote. The responses I received from my nanny were clipped. She told me expressly that she loved me. I know that for sure.” He never blamed her for falling out of touch. It was he who had grown and forgotten her. Warlock had never thought about trying to reconnect. <br/>
“Would you like to reach out? Reestablish the relationship? It could help you rediscover your self-worth, make you happier, and provide stability whenever trauma resurfaces.” Cynthia was growing more excited, like a bird in a cage flapping for freedom. “These sessions will certainly help, but dialogue with someone who knows more intimately could be of immeasurable worth to your mental health!”<br/>
     Warlock’s head began to feel light. “I don’t know where to start. I’m not sure that she still lives in the UK. She wasn’t that old when she left, but I can say her age for certain. Hell, I don’t even know her first name!” The elation he allowed himself to feel began to waver, like a water droplet before it bursts. <br/>
 Dr. Opus-Goldwater shrewdly leaned toward him. “I think you will be able to find what you are looking for. I’m afraid our hour is up.” She stood and began to usher Warlock to the door. When he opened his mouth to inquire about setting an appointment for the next session, he found himself curiously alone. <br/>
Within the office, far from the view of Warlock, Cynthia Opus-Goldwater was sitting in her chair, when suddenly, she slumped back. Boils began to sear across her face and a hoarse scream wrenched its way out of her throat, before she fell silent and unconscious. Prince Beelzebub, Lord of Hell stood before her limp body. From the bland painting, holy light seeped and pooled into none other than the Archangel Gabriel. He brushed imagined dust from his suit, before stepping forward to survey the demon’s handiwork.<br/>
      “I didn’t know you were so capable of imitating humans! He really fell for it! Do you think the plan will work?” Gabriel seldom complimented anyone but himself, or Sandalphon after a particularly good boot-licking and especially not demons. However, the messenger was quite impressed. He knew that humans were gullible and far inferior to angels, but he couldn’t comprehend the full extent of their naivety. <br/>
     The prince shook off the last trace of human and stretched before snarling, “Firstly, of course I am capable, manipulation is a demon’s spezzialty. Second, of course he did, he is not my master’s son. He is Crowley’s mizztake. Third, don’t question my plan. You forget you are talking to a prince, holy one. The Almighty may have given you your instructions, but in Hell, I give the orderzz. Understand, Archangel?” Even though they stood only 5’6’’ to Gabriel’s 6’11’’, Gabriel still shuddered. “Yes, sir. I mean ma’am? Um . . .”<br/>
The prince rolled their eyes but smirked to themselves. “Your Highness will do nicely, hmm”. Gabriel sounded so afraid, like he might be smote with hellfire should he step one pristine shoe out of line. A demon could get used to this. <br/>
     Meanwhile, many blocks away, our young semi-intrepid protagonist, still reeling from his experience, got the tingling sensation that he should check his pocket. Inside, he found a business card. To his bewilderment, it was not for the office from whence he had come, but rather . . . “A bookshop in Soho?”</p>
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